Intention
I was fried. I had once loved my job leading business-writing seminars. But after too many days standing in front of corporate managers from 8:00 to 5:00, entertaining them, educating them and practically willing them to write better—well, it had gotten old. And the luxury of room service had long been overshadowed by an aching desire to sleep in my own bed. It was definitely time for a change.
I had learned through study and personal experience that if you want to do something great, you have to start with a clear intention. So I sat down one day with paper and pen at hand, closed my eyes, and asked myself what I really wanted to do with my life. The answer came easily and quickly: I wanted to speak—not about how to write a better business letter, but how to live a better life. When I opened my eyes, I wrote down my intention: to start speaking to audiences about how to create the life we want. I then launched into designing the flyer that would describe in detail the first presentation I wanted to give on “Women, Power and Happiness.”
A couple of weeks later, my friend and colleague Marci Shimoff was in my office. Like me, Marci taught business writing in the corporate world, and, like me, she was up to her eyeballs in dangling modifiers. We were discussing some fine point of punctuation when she suddenly saw my flyer and grabbed it off my desk.
“I’ve been wanting to start a speaking business for the past four years,” she practically shouted. And just like that, our speaking partnership, which we called The Esteem Group, was born.
The first thing we did was to write down our intention. Our mission was “to help women understand and experience their inner power and self-worth, so they can create and live their own vision.” Little did we know what power those words contained.
We began building our speaking business, specializing in self-esteem presentations for women. One of our best resources was Jack Canfield, a renowned expert in the field of self-esteem, with whom Marci had studied. So when his book Chicken Soup for the Soul became a national bestseller that year, we immediately got his permission to share stories from it with our audiences.
It turned out to be a powerful combination: women and Chicken Soup. We saw what an impact the stories had, how deeply they moved women and how much they helped them with the changes they were trying to make. So the following January, when Marci approached me with the idea of coediting a volume for women, I didn’t hesitate. We faxed Jack a proposal. He said it sounded like a good idea—and then we all got busy and let it drop.
But Marci and I kept getting clearer about our intention: We wanted to touch the hearts of women all over the globe. We wanted to inspire them, uplift them, give them a vision of life lived from the heart—and show them the magnificent support we can be to one another.
We finally flew to Los Angeles and sat down for a meeting with Jack. With our vision clearly in mind and heart, we told him that we wanted to touch the hearts of women around the world through a Chicken Soup for the Soul book just for them. Jack asked us why he should let us do the project, when his office already had a successful track record (they were working on number two in the series). Marci and I looked at each other across the table and simultaneously realized we hadn’t prepared a thing to say!
For a moment, we sat speechless. Then, all of a sudden, the words started pouring out: We both taught business writing and understood the principles of good writing, I had majored in journalism, we understood the “Chicken Soup” genre because we’d been using stories in our public presentations, we were connected with women through our business and felt that we understood what women were hungry for, the women’s market was huge, and finally, Jack and his coauthor Mark Victor Hansen couldn’t coauthor a book for women without women coauthors!
Jack didn’t even hesitate. He said yes, and sixteen months later, Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul became a reality. Within two months, it hit No. 1 on the New York Times bestseller list. A million copies had been sold.
But we didn’t understand the real implication of the numbers until the mail started coming in. We soon found we had fulfilled our intention beyond our wildest imagination. We were deluged with letters from women literally all around the globe telling us how our book had affected their lives. Estranged mothers and daughters were reconciled; abused women found the courage to get help; women changed careers, adopted babies; confronted their bosses, their illnesses, their fears, their mothers-in-law. We toured all over the country, speaking and signing books, and everywhere women shared their stories with us. Marci and I wept with them, cheered with them, and most days felt we were the luckiest women alive.
I still feel that way! I have learned that when intention comes from the heart and is coupled with the willingness to work, miracles can happen. We may not know how they’re going to happen, but we don’t need to. We just need to be awake to opportunities and willing to show up and do what’s needed. To say that Marci and I worked extremely hard on that first book would be an understatement. The learning curve was steep, and we had to put the book together while still building our speaking business and teaching in the corporate world to earn an income. Even finding days when we were both in town at the same time was challenging! But we knew it was the opportunity of a lifetime. What a perfect vehicle we had found to fulfill our desire.
In the following story, by Dr. Christine Horner, we see another example of the extraordinary power of intention. Christine was moved to political action by her outrage over an injustice she encountered as a plastic surgeon helping women recover from breast cancer. She wanted to empower women, and she knew that helping them gain the ability to have their health-care needs met would be a significant way to do that.
She also knew that her greatest chance for success with her idea was to get very clear about her intention, so she wrote it down: “All women will have reconstructive surgery available to them.” And then she watched as the universe began to organize around her intention. As she points out—and as Marci and I found out—this is usually far beyond anything we could ever imagine or plan!
For those of us with a history of breast cancer in the family, Christine Horner’s story is particularly relevant. But I believe everyone who reads this story will be inspired by her wholehearted desire to serve others—and her willingness to go all the way to the top.
When I heard the news on October 21, 1998, that President Clinton had signed the Women’s Health and Cancer Rights Act into law, I wiped the tears from my eyes and gave my mom in heaven a high five. “We did it, Mom!” I exulted.
It had been a tough five-year battle to get this legislation passed, but it was worth every frustration, every late night and every dime. The new law meant that if a woman had to have a mastectomy, her insurance company would have to cover reconstructive breast surgery. In the early 1990s, many insurance companies, in a misguided effort to save money, had decided to stop paying for this essential restorative operation. Now coverage would be required, and every patient could be made whole again.
This story begins seven years earlier, in the fall of 1991, when I opened my own solo practice in the greater Cincinnati area. At age thirty-three, I had finally completed twenty-seven years of education to realize my childhood dream of becoming a plastic and reconstructive surgeon. It was so fulfilling to finally be able to help people with my surgical skills!
As I developed my practice over the next two years, I felt a special passion for serving a particular group of patients. They struck a deep personal chord in me because my mother was one of them. These were women with breast cancer.
One day in 1993, a young woman in her thirties sat in my office and told me how the treatment of her breast cancer had required mastectomies of both breasts. She wanted me to reconstruct them. Following her consultation, as required, I sent a letter to her insurer, Indiana Medicaid, requesting authorization to perform the reconstructive surgery. I thought the letter was a mere formality since insurance companies had always routinely paid for breast reconstruction after a mastectomy. But several weeks later I received a reply saying that the surgery was “not medically indicated.” That’s insurance jargon that usually means, “There’s no medical reason to deny this surgery, but to cut costs, we’re not paying for it.”
I thought it was a mistake and wrote them another letter. It was not a mistake. The Medicaid insurance executive was unrelenting. This businessman declared that the surgery was “not medically necessary.”
I was outraged and decided that, no matter what it took, I would fight this decision. Not because it was a threat to my practice or my personal finances; I had plenty of patients with other needs. In fact, after several months, I realized that the appeals process would require enormous time and almost certain financial loss. But I didn’t let that stop me. I refused to abandon my patient. I could relate too well to what she was going through.
Just imagine being told you have breast cancer. You’re told you must have one or both of your breasts surgically removed. You’re also told you’ll be treated with chemicals that will make you very sick, cause you to lose all your hair and possibly damage your organs. Death is a real possibility. You fear the treatments and the pain, and on top of all of that, you have to wonder if your significant other will still love you and still find you sexually attractive. Thank God, you learn, you can be restored to wholeness with reconstructive breast surgery. Then you find out that your insurance company refuses to pay for this surgery. Imagine.
A few months later, armed with stacks of published research, I argued my case to the judge presiding over my final appeal. I presented the studies documenting the enormously beneficial effects of breast reconstruction. They all showed that when women undergo breast reconstruction in the same operation as the mastectomy, they suffer far less emotional trauma. The judge was a woman, and I won my case.
This wasn’t the end of my battle, though—far from it. A short time later I was shocked to discover that this case did not set a precedent and had no bearing on any other future cases. Every Medicaid case is evaluated separately. That meant I would have to go through the same draining, time-consuming, financially costly administrative slugfest for every single Medicaid patient who needed breast reconstruction! Worse still, private insurers started jumping on the denial bandwagon. The final straw came one day in the form of a letter from Blue Cross and Blue Shield of Kentucky. It declared that breast reconstruction for my thirty-three-year-old patient was unnecessary because there was no medical need to reconstruct “an organ with no function.”
My eyes fixed on those five words: “an organ with no function.” I started yelling, “An organ with no function? What kind of callous, coldhearted idiot could say such a thing?” I vowed then that every woman who must have a mastectomy would also have insurance coverage for reconstructive breast surgery.
In order to achieve that, I knew laws would have to be passed. For me, this was no simple task. I knew nothing about the political process, and even with a doctorate, I was hesitant to speak up, out of fear of sounding stupid. But I knew if I kept following my heart and remained clear about my intention, somehow I could make this happen.
And so, the adventure began. And what an adventure it was—awe-inspiring, magical and profoundly spiritual. At times, everything and everyone I needed for the project seemed to fall effortlessly into my lap. Seemingly random offers of essential help, perfectly timed meetings and serendipitous events happened so routinely that I came to expect them.
For example, deep into the project, I realized that Senator Ted Kennedy should sponsor the federal bill because of his success in getting health-care bills through Congress. I didn’t take any action or speak to anyone about this thought, but a week later, at a state medical meeting, a surgeon from Boston walked up to me and said, “I’m operating on Ted Kennedy next week. Do you want me to ask him to sponsor your bill?”
It seemed as if I had a direct line to God. Ask and ye shall receive—no kidding!
But it was also difficult, frustrating and sometimes even shocking. It required enormous perseverance and strength, which I had to develop over time—and at times the challenges seemed insurmountable. When I launched the project, it made sense to me to focus on passing one federal law. Unfortunately, the Clintons’ national health-care plan had just failed, and the word in Washington was that no federal health-care bills would even be considered. I soon realized that, somehow, I would have to pass fifty individual state laws. I took a deep breath and began planning, organizing, calling and writing. Within a year I had enrolled the help of plastic surgeons, breast cancer survivors and numerous organizations in every state. And, one by one, state laws began to pass.
Then, one morning in 1994, I got the darkest news yet. I learned that our successes in the states meant nothing, thanks to a legal loophole. It seemed that a law called ERISA, the Employee Retirement Income Securities Act, exempts most people from the protection of state health-care laws. In order to fulfill my commitment, I realized that a federal law would have to be passed after all.
The challenge and chances of success seemed as intimidating as climbing Mt. Everest, shoeless. But then something personal and tragic happened that renewed my resolve. My mother, the vibrant, extraordinary woman who had taught me to reach for the stars, lost her fifteen-year struggle against breast cancer. The disease had stripped her of her dignity and cut short her life. I held my mother’s hand and felt her spirit go free as she took her last breath. At that moment, I vowed to let nothing stop me. I dedicated the project, now called the Breast Reconstruction Advocacy Project (BRA Project), to her memory. I pledged to myself that her untimely death would be a pivotal event in the worldwide fight against this disease.
By this time, I had grown more politically savvy, and I realized that it was now time for me to go straight to the top. I had to meet President Clinton. I’d heard it said that we are all only three people away from meeting anyone, so everywhere I went I started asking, “Do you know how I can meet President Clinton?” Within two weeks, a friend introduced me to a member of the Federal Trade Commission. I met David for lunch and told him all about my plans. He told me he went to Washington to meet with the president four times a year, and the next time he went, I could go.
Two days later, he called me and announced, “We’re going on Tuesday.”
“What?” I said, looking at my calendar with about forty patients scheduled for the office that day.
“Your patients will understand,” he explained. “You’re meeting the president. Oh, and by the way,” he added, “there’s one other thing. It will cost you $10,000. It’s a fund-raiser for the 1996 election, and that’s the minimum contribution.”
“There’s no way!” I yelped. “I can’t do that.”
“Look,” he reasoned, “this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You can fund-raise from your friends. It’s for a good cause.”
Suddenly, I felt a strong feeling in my gut that said, “Do it.” Because my gut rarely fails me, I listened. And so, a few days later, I was in Washington to meet the president.
Wanting to make an impression, I opted to wear a perfect black strapless dress and elbow-length black velvet gloves. I felt like a million bucks as I walked into the Mayflower Hotel. After walking through the metal detector, I gave one final check and adjustment to my gown and gloves and entered the room—where I immediately saw that everyone was wearing business suits!
Mortified, I stopped to get my seat assignment and was told, “We needed another woman at the president’s table, so we moved you there. Is that okay?” Absolutely! But as I headed for my table, my embarrassment returned as heads swiveled in my direction.
“Thanks for dressing for us,” one of David’s friends said as we walked by.
“Oh, you’re welcome,” I said with a smile. “It was really no trouble at all.” I realized I might as well just enjoy myself.
An hour later, the president arrived. He was taller than I had imagined, with a ruddy complexion and gray hair, and yes, he was as charming and charismatic as legend said.
“I’m Dr. Christine Horner,” I said, as I finally made it to the front of the receiving line and was shaking the president’s hand.
“Yes, I know who you are,” he replied. “You live across the river from Cincinnati and you’re working on legislation about breast cancer. And, I believe you’re sitting at my table tonight, aren’t you?”
“Why, yes, I am,” I answered, trying not to show my astonishment. He really was good! I had been asked to send information about myself before the event because the president liked to be briefed about everyone he would be meeting. I had heard that he never forgot a name or a face, but still, I was impressed.
“I’ll see you later at the table,” he said as the next person in line took my place.
I ended up sitting directly across the round, twelve-foot table from the president—too far away for a conversation. Endless streams of people came up to speak to him throughout the meal. As the evening passed and the time for him to give his speech rapidly approached, I was struck with the thought that I had just spent $10,000 to talk to the president, and I might not get to do it. In a mild panic, I leaned across the table, caught his eye and yelled, “I want to talk to you!” He jumped a little, and then yelled back, “Okay. I’ll come and get you after my speech and we can talk.”
He stood up and went to the front of the room. After giving his twenty-minute speech, he left the stage and, as promised, came by my table and signaled to me to follow him. I rose from my chair and walked behind him. He shook hands, smiled and bid good-bye to everyone with sweet, laid-back Southern charm. We walked into the hallway and the doors closed behind us.
Swarms of secret service agents descended. He began snapping his fingers at his assistants. “Give it to me now,” he demanded. Papers were thrust at him from all directions, and he began signing them furiously, while at the same time, streams of young men updated him on the latest happenings in quick sound bites. Tension was high, and he was working at frenetic, lightning speed.
Suddenly, he turned to me and said in a relaxed tone, “Now, what is it you want to say?”
I was still reeling from what I had just witnessed. My knees were knocking. I felt like Dorothy trembling before the Wizard of Oz. Hi, I’m Dorothy, the meek and mild, I thought. One minute of presidential time seemed equivalent to an hour, so I started talking as fast as I could. I told him about the problem with insurance companies not covering breast reconstruction, and our efforts to get a bill to Congress. He took notes and appeared to be very interested. He said he would look into it and see what he could do. And then he turned around and walked out of the building, surrounded by his entourage.
Three days later, I received a call from a member of the Democratic National Committee. “We like your spunk,” he said. “Normally, a $10,000 contribution is the cost for two people to attend an event. Since you came by yourself, we’d like to invite you to meet with the president again when he comes to Cincinnati in two days.”
Wearing just the right business suit, I listened to the president as he gave his speech at the private luncheon. He turned to leave, and I sprang from my chair. As he approached the stairs leading to the men’s room, I leaped in front of him and blocked him like a linebacker. Dorothy was gone, and Xena the warrior had appeared! Staring him in the eyes, no more than six inches away, I said, “My mother died of breast cancer, and so did yours. We can make a tribute to our mothers’ lives by passing breast reconstruction legislation!”
He snapped his fingers at his assistant, asked for his card, and then handed me his business card with the zip code to the Oval Office. “Send me a packet of information at this address,” he replied.
I did. A few weeks later I received a note on White House stationary, personally signed by the president, thanking me for the information and promising he would look into the matter.
That meeting led to more meetings, including several with Hillary Clinton and her staff in the West Wing of the White House, and suddenly doors began to open. Media coverage for the project exploded. Several major women’s magazines called for interviews, including Glamour, Allure, Ms. and Elle. There were dozens of television, radio and newspaper interviews. It seemed that everyone wanted to get on board across the whole country.
I was buoyed with optimism when the bill was introduced to Congress in 1997.
Then, it stalled. It was promptly put into legislative committee—or, “a black hole,” as it’s also known—where it sat for two years, seemingly dead. I knew that bills rarely, if ever, pass on their own merit; they only make it through by being tagged onto a larger, “moving” bill. But even that wasn’t working. The reconstruction legislation was tagged onto every moving bill, but none passed. With only one day of the 1998 congressional session left, it looked as if the situation was hopeless. Sure enough, I received a phone call that day from the staff legislative liaison for the national plastic surgery society. His words cut through me like a knife, “Bad news, Christine; it’s all over. There aren’t any other bills to tag it onto.”
My heart sank. I couldn’t believe that all those years of hard work with such clear, divine support could end like this. We had come so close!
The next day, my secretary knocked on the door while I was examining a patient. She rarely interrupted me, and I thought something must be terribly wrong.
“You have an urgent phone call you must take now,” she said. My heart raced as I picked up the phone. Then, I heard the voice of the same staffer, but his tone was entirely different. He sounded elated.
“It passed!” he said.
“What?” I said. “What did you say?”
“It got tagged onto the budget bill at the last minute, and it passed!” he exclaimed.
In a daze I thanked him and hung up the phone. Then I burst into tears and gave my mom that symbolic high five. My heart spoke the words, “We did it, Mom!” and her spirit filled the room. My mother’s great sacrifice had made a difference. Her life and death would help millions of women. At least now they could be spared the trauma of not being able to have reconstructive surgery.
But as the days passed, I felt unsettled. One problem was solved, but another, much greater problem remained and clouded the celebration—the epidemic of breast cancer. Why was it still growing? What was the cause? How could it be stopped? Thus began a new and far more important mission in my life: to trace this killer back to its root causes and help protect women from ever developing this disease in the first place.
I studied hard and unearthed many answers, and soon my intuition told me to jump off another professional cliff. I sold my plastic surgery practice in 2002 to dedicate my life full time to teaching people what I had discovered. I wrote a book describing the best natural approaches that research has proven substantially lower the risk of breast cancer. When used in conjunction with standard medical treatments for women with breast cancer, these same techniques can help to improve their chances of survival.
This amazing journey has taught me that when we make a commitment to a greater possibility for the world, the universe rises up in support. All we have to do is surrender to its infinite organizing power and listen to its guiding messages.
“One problem was solved, but a much greater problem remained. Thus began a new and far more important mission in my life:
to trace this killer back to its root
causes and help protect women
from ever developing this disease
in the first place.”
—Christine Horner |
